


At Last

by earlgreytea68



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 04:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: In which Pete Wentz is supposed to be singing at his cousin's wedding.So naturally this becomes Patrick's problem.





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

> Idk, it was Grammy night and I wanted to write something short and sweet, so here's a thing.
> 
> Thanks to Aja who came up with what song Patrick should sing when I was like "idk what he sings, maybe Taylor Swift?????" Lol

“I’ve got a huge favor to ask you,” says Pete.

The thing is: Pete asks him for favors at least once a week. They range from _can you put your beautiful voice on this song?_ to _what was that place we ate at that time in Fresno in ’07, do you remember?_ to _send me that picture of that mouse with the top hat on that you were talking about last week_ to _I need you to make this into a good song for me, please_. Pete never calls any of these favors “huge.”

Patrick can’t resist the flicker of the frown that comes over him at the adjective. What could Pete think was a “huge” favor? “Okay,” he says cautiously. He watches the red light he’s sitting at and braces himself.

“I need you to be my date to a wedding,” says Pete.

The light turns green, and Patrick doesn’t move his car. “You need what?” he says finally.

“I need a date to this wedding,” says Pete. “A plus-one.”

The car behind Patrick starts honking, and Patrick abruptly punches the accelerator. His car jerks forward and he says distractedly, “A plus-one?”

“Yeah, you know how you get invitations, and they say ‘Pete Wentz and guest’? Or ‘Patrick Stump and guest’? Like that.”

“Yeah, I know what a plus-one is, Pete, I’m just…” The car that was behind him passes him, honking its horn. Patrick tosses him his middle finger. Like he’s got time to worry about a red light when Pete Wentz is asking him out on some kind of date. “We don’t usually go to events as each other’s plus-one.”

“No, we usually both get invited, but this is a family wedding and so they had no reason to invite you.” Pete explains this very calmly, like this makes sense.

“I think they’re expecting you to bring your girlfriend,” Patrick points out reasonably.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” says Pete.

“I bet you could find a girl to be your girlfriend for the night.”

“Patrick. Why would I get a random girl when I could go with you?”

Again, he says this like it makes total sense. “Okay…” Patrick says.

“Oh, good, thanks for agreeing,” says Pete happily.

“No, no,” says Patrick. “That wasn’t agreement. That was me…processing…like… Am I supposed to pretend to be your girlfriend?”

“Are you going to wear a dress?”

“No,” Patrick says. “No, probably not.”

“Then I don’t know if you’re going to be a very convincing girl,” says Pete.

Patrick…really doesn’t know what to say. He probably shouldn’t still be driving. He says, “So…you just want to take me as your date…because…?” and hopes Pete is going to fill in his reasoning, and that his reasoning isn’t _aren’t we already dating?_ Which would be…fair reasoning, honestly, Patrick has to admit at this point in their lives together.

Pete says, “Because obviously you’d be more fun to hang out with than anyone else I could take.”

Which… _does_ sound a little bit like they’re already dating.

“And also,” says Pete, “because I maybe kind of need you to sing at this thing for me. Can you?”

***

The story comes out in Wentzian dribs and drabs, between tangents into a bunch of things Patrick doesn’t care about. Pete’s been invited to this wedding. Something something first dance something. Is the gist of it.

“Did you already tell them I’d do it?” Patrick asks. Which is weird, because if he’s going to sing at their first dance, couldn’t they have just…invited him himself? Why is he the plus-one?

“No,” says Pete. “I haven’t brought you up at all. I said that _I_ would do it.”

“You’re…singing for the first dance?” Patrick cannot hide his surprise.

“Yeah, see, that’s why I’m not singing for the first dance. Hey, Trick, did you see these new photographs of Jupiter, they’re amazing.”

“No,” Patrick says impatiently. “Pete. What are _you_ singing for the first dance?”

“I was thinking,” says Pete, “Chopsticks.”

Patrick blinks. He’s pulled his car into a parking lot, because he clearly needs to focus on this. “Chopsticks the eating utensil?”

“Yes. No. The eating utensil? What? No. Obviously not. That reminds me, though, remember when Joe got that fortune last month that said it was going to rain on his parade?”

“What? Yes.”

“And then _that pipe burst in his house last week._ Fucking wild, right?”

“Yeah. Sure. Chopsticks,” Patrick prompts.

“The piano composition. I can play Chopsticks, you know.”

Patrick pauses. “It…doesn’t have words.”

“Yeah, I can’t sing, Trick.”

Patrick can’t argue with that. “So you’re going to play Chopsticks for their first dance. How are they dancing to that?”

“Right. You see my problem. It’s occurred to me that my plan is not a good one.”

“No,” says Patrick. “It’s not a good one.”

“Exactly. So you’re my Plan B.”

“I’m your _Plan B_?” says Patrick.

“More like my Plan C,” says Pete.

“Who was ahead of me in your line of singers to ask to perform at your relative’s wedding?” demands Patrick, indignant.

“No, Plan B was I was going to write them a poem and recite it.”

Patrick considers. “And how were they dancing to _that_?”

“Bingo,” says Pete.

Patrick sighs. “When’s this wedding?”

“Saturday.”

Patrick starts in surprise. “ _This_ Saturday? Like, three days from now?”

“Yeah. That’s not a big thing. You know a million songs. Just, like, pick one.”

“Pete, how long did you spend thinking that you could just play Chopsticks for these people?”

“A long time,” admits Pete.

Patrick sighs heavily. “I will sing at this wedding for you.”

“You will be the best date ever.” Pete hangs up.

Patrick says out loud, “It’s not a date,” because maybe that will help him believe it.

***

Pete gives him a wolf whistle when he sees him, and Patrick says, embarrassed, “Stop that.” He knows he’s flushing and it’s the worst.

“You’re all dressed up,” Pete says.

“It’s a _wedding_ ,” says Patrick.

“I know,” says Pete. “That’s why I put on real pants.”

And a rainbow-striped suit jacket. It’s…something.

Pete gives him a show, twirling in a circle so Patrick can get the full effect.

He looks irritatingly good.

Pete says, “I mean, I know my family is going to wonder how I ended up with you, but I tried to look like I halfway-deserved such a good-looking date.”

“Your family _knows_ me,” Patrick reminds him. “They know exactly how you ended up with me.”

“I stole your soul when you were too young to protect it,” Pete says cheerfully, and weirdly reaches out to tweak Patrick’s nose.

Patrick rubs at his nose and says awkwardly, “I think this is going to be a weird evening.”

“It’s going to be fun!” insists Pete, and takes Patrick’s hand to tug him out of the room.

***

The wedding is at an old farm with a determinedly rustic barn that’s been decked out in tiny twinkling lights and a million candles. Patrick feels like the candles are a fire hazard and spends a lot of time worrying about people’s dresses getting too close to an open flame. Or Pete’s hair. Because Pete keeps leaning way too close to the candles as he tells animated stories, and Patrick has to keep reaching out to nudge the candles away from him before he goes up in flames. God knows how much product is in that hair…or what Pete’s suit jacket is made of. Pete is probably the most flammable thing in the room.

Whoever Pete is talking to – a cousin? Someone? Patrick has quickly exhausted his knowledge of Pete’s relatives at this wedding – smiles at Patrick like he’s being adorable, and Patrick withdraws his hand from the candle self-consciously, but, like, _someone’s_ got to look out for Pete and it might as well be…his…date.

“Patrick,” Pete says to him, “tell them I’m right.”

He has no idea what Pete was talking about, he was busy saving him from going up in flames. “You’re probably not right,” Patrick says, and looks at Pete’s cousins. “He’s usually not right.”

“Wow,” says Pete, “you’re a terrible date. Also, I was just telling them that _The Breakfast Club_ is better than _Ferris Bueller_.”

“Oh, well, that’s true,” says Patrick. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“He’s a terrible date,” Pete tells his cousins.

“I was busy trying to keep you from catching fire. Can you watch out for these candles here? You move too much.” Patrick nudges a few more out of the way.

“He’s very sweet,” Pete’s cousin tells Pete, a judgment apparently based entirely on the fact that Patrick doesn’t want him to have third-degree burns.

“I just don’t want to have to spend the night in the emergency room listening to him whine,” Patrick grumbles. “He’s the opposite of what anyone would call ‘stoic.’”

Pete beams at him like that was a nice thing to say, and then there’s the chiming of champagne flutes being hit with forks and the ceremony’s starting and they’re ushered into a row of seats.

It’s a lovely ceremony, brief but heartfelt. Pete’s cousin is the bride and she’s glowing with happiness and her groom can’t take his eyes off of her and it’s sweet. They look happy. Patrick’s suddenly so glad Pete asked him to sing for these people. They seem nice and Patrick’s honored to be setting them off on a good first foot.

He leans closer to Pete next to him and says in his ear, “Thank you.”

Pete looks away from the ceremony and gives him a quizzical smile. “For what?” he whispers.

And Patrick feels suddenly ridiculous, too romantic by half, caught up in wedding magic like an utter sap. But he also can’t help it. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Asking me to come.”

Pete’s smile widens until it’s dazzling. “Patrick. Of course. Who else would I ask?”

***

Patrick thought they’d be seated with members of Pete’s family that he knew but instead they’re at a special head table because Pete’s…singing. That’s what the mother of the groom informs Patrick, when he’s feeling awkward at this table where he knows no one and Pete is off getting them drinks.

“Right,” Patrick says slowly. “Pete’s singing.”

“He’s in a band, you know,” the mother of the groom says to him.

Patrick should say _I know, I’m in the band with him_. Instead he says, “I know. I’m his date.”

“Oh, right,” she says, laughing. “Silly me. Of course you know about his band.”

This woman apparently really doesn’t know who Patrick is, so Patrick can’t resist saying, “I hear his band is pretty good.”

“That’s what they say,” says the woman vaguely. “I personally don’t know it. It’s not really my type of thing.” She seems to have realized she might just have insulted Patrick’s date and says quickly, “Oh, but I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees solemnly. “The band is lovely.”

Pete arrives back with drinks and says pleasantly, “Hello.”

“And you’re Pete!” she exclaims. “We’re so looking forward to your performance.”

“Me, too,” says Patrick, amused. “I’m very much looking forward to your performance. I’ve been telling the groom’s mom here all about the lovely band you’re in.”

“It is a lovely band,” Pete agrees.

“A bit of an acquired taste, though,” says Patrick. “I mean, definitely not for everyone.”

“Honestly,” Pete says to the mother of the groom, “our music’s a little iffy, but the lyrics are fucking fantastic.”

“Oh,” she says faintly, like she doesn’t know what to make of him.

“The guy who composes our songs for us,” Pete says, settling into his chair next to Patrick, “he can be a little out there. Like, just, a real mess sometimes. It’s a shame. He really holds us back. We could really be _something_ , you know?”

“It’s true,” says Patrick, “like, what’s four number one albums and a bunch of top ten hits? Embarrassing, frankly.”

“Enough about my failure of a band,” says Pete heartily. “Let me tell you about my date here. Isn’t he the best date in the entire room?”

“Other than your son’s date,” Patrick says politely. “The bride looks beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as Patrick,” Pete says. “But pretty good.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, because the mother of the groom looks increasingly bewildered by them. “Don’t mind him. He’s drunk. You know how rock stars are.”

“Drunk on Patrick fucking Stump,” says Pete. “I’m _besotted_.”

“Well,” the woman says, smiling gamely. “Maybe we’ll be going to your wedding next.”

Patrick laughs.

Pete says, “You’d totally make the guest list.”

The woman excuses herself to go talk to people she actually knows and aren’t annoying.

Patrick turns to Pete and says, “Tell me more about this terrible songwriter you’ve got in your band.”

“Why?” asks Pete, sipping his drink. “Want to do some songwriting for me?”

Patrick leans back in his seat. Pete’s arm is draped across the back of it, which is kind of nice. Pete’s turned toward him, his eyes riveted on him, and Patrick’s conscious again that Pete has this way of looking at him like he’s the only interesting thing in the room. Patrick can forget that sometimes. Pete always looks at him like that, Patrick can just get so used to it that he forgets how extraordinarily nice it is. But he’s in a room of mostly strangers and Pete’s gaze is familiar and his presence pitched toward him is comforting.

Patrick wants to say something cute and funny, because that would fit the tone of the conversation, but he instead says, “Yeah. I’d do…all the songwriting for you.”

Pete smiles at him. “Deal,” he says.

It’s…a moment. Patrick doesn’t know what to do next.

He’s saved by a woman sticking her hand out at them and saying, “Hi, I’m Matilda, I’m the sister of the groom, I don’t think we’ve met.”

Pete drops his arm away from Patrick’s chair so he can shake Matilda’s hand. “I’m Pete. This is Patrick.”

“Pete who’s in, like, the band and is going to sing,” says Matilda. “I assumed you were probably, like, artistic.” Matilda’s gaze lingers on his suit jacket.

“That’s me,” says Pete happily.

Matilda looks like she’s going to say something else but they’re interrupted by more ringing champagne flutes and everyone having to take their seats.

Patrick murmurs in Pete’s ear, as there’s some kind of introduction moving into a toast, “None of the groom’s family has any idea who Pete Wentz is, apparently.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Pete whispers back to him. “They’re awful people.”

“This is _clearly_ why you got asked to sing,” Patrick says, and Pete laughs.

“Shh,” Matilda hisses at them, glaring daggers at them.

“Sorry,” Patrick mouths to her.

Pete is bad at laughing, in that once he gets started, he can’t stop. He puts his hand on Patrick’s knee and curls into him so he can laugh against his neck, and Patrick’s almost okay with the fact that they are now the center of attention.

***

It’s one of those weddings where they don’t open the dancefloor until after the food’s already been served. Patrick has to sing, at some unspecified point in the future, and so he’s not eating.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Pete says around a bite of salad. “It’s very sweet.”

“Please enjoy your food,” Patrick says drily. “Don’t feel like you have to suffer with me.”

Pete waves his hand around. “It’s wedding food. You’re not missing much.”

Everyone at the table glares at him.

Pete is going to get them kicked out of this wedding.

Patrick is going to have to do a really great job with his song to make it better.

The bride comes over and says warmly, “Hey, Pete,” and Pete stands up and gives her a hug and says, “You look _beautiful_ ,” sincerely, because Pete can be sweet when he wants to be.

“Thank you! So do you! Love this coat.” She leans past Pete and says, “Hi, Patrick,” because apparently she at least knows who Fall Out Boy is, which is nice. Although, if she knows who Fall Out Boy is, that doesn’t explain why she’d ask Pete to sing for her.

“Hi. It’s a great wedding. Thanks for having me.”

“Hey, we figured Pete deserved a plus-one,” says the bride, grinning, and ruffles Pete’s hair.

He ducks his head away, making a face, and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll make Patrick earn his free meal here.”

“Are you ready to open the dancefloor?” she asks Pete.

“So, so ready,” says Pete, and grabs Patrick’s guitar case, exactly like he’s going to perform. Patrick, who had half-risen out of his seat, sits back down, confused, as Pete bounces up to the microphone.

“Hello!” he shouts into the microphone, like he’s working the crowd at an arena, and he gets a similar response. Pete is magic, Patrick thinks. Patrick just always sounds like an idiot when he’s trying to work the crowd. “I’m Pete.” Pete waves his fingers in a hello, before pausing to take Patrick’s guitar out of its case. “I’m a cousin of the bride, if you didn’t know. And…I totally can’t sing.” There’s an awkward beat of reaction, as the wedding guests try to determine what’s coming next. The bride and groom stand on the dancefloor, holding hands, looking uncertain. “So. As a wedding gift. I am _not_ going to sing. As a wedding gift, I brought with me the best voice on the entire planet.” Which shouldn’t make Patrick blush, since that’s such a Pete thing to say, but it still does. Pete holds the guitar out toward Patrick and grins and says, “Come blow them away, Tricky.”

Patrick, to applause, makes his way over to where Pete is standing and takes the guitar from him and slips the strap over his head. Pete takes a step back, dramatically ceding the microphone to him.

“Um,” Patrick says, plucking at the guitar a bit, “that was an unnecessary introduction.” He thinks people laugh but he’s trying not to pay attention. He focuses on his guitar and says, “Okay. Here’s a song.” He takes a deep breath and plays himself an intro and closes his eyes and sings, “At last, my love has come along, my lonely days are over, and life is like a song.” He glances toward the dancefloor, where the couple is dancing, so he assumes they’re okay with this. He had no idea what they liked, so he went with the most basic wedding song he could think of.

When he’s done the applause seems warm and genuine, so he thinks he did a good job. He says, “Uh, congratulations,” and does a weird little head-bob thing because he doesn’t know what else to do, and then he steps back from the microphone, taking his guitar off as he does it.

Pete is staring at him.

Patrick feels alarm. “What?” he asks. “Did I do it wrong?”

“You sang a love song,” Pete says, sounding shocked.

“Yes,” Patrick says slowly. “It’s a wedding. It seemed like I should sing a love song.”

“I didn’t expect that,” Pete says. “I wasn’t prepared.” He does sound a little strangled.

Patrick says, “Well. I mean. Well.” And doesn’t know what else to say.

“That was so good,” Pete says, and suddenly gives him a tight hug. “It was really good.”

Patrick hugs him back and doesn’t say anything because he’s still clueless as to what to say.

Pete eventually steps back and says, “Okay, I guess you can go eat your salad now.”

Like that’s what Patrick’s thinking about.

But Patrick doesn’t have a better idea, so Patrick goes to eat his salad.

***

Patrick’s night is a lot of people coming up to him and praising his performance. It’s a little dizzying because usually Patrick just sings his songs and people clap and then he gets to run off-stage and…not be talked to again. This is a lot and he’s not sure he’s doing the best job dealing with it. He says _thank you, thank you_ a million times and is sure everyone must think he’s incredibly boring. Pete sits next to him, uncharacteristically quiet, and every time Patrick looks at him his eyes are steadily on him and he’s smiling a little.

Eventually there’s a piece of wedding cake in front of him and the dancefloor is crowded enough that Patrick gets a break. He looks over at Pete and says, “How boring was I?”

“Patrick, you’re the best wedding date ever,” says Pete. “I can never bring anyone else to a wedding, ever, after you. You’ve ruined me.”

“Pete,” Patrick says, because that’s ridiculous.

“It’s like how you ruined me for other voices. How many things can you ruin me for, Patrick Stump?” Pete leans forward as he says it, looking genuinely thoughtful, and it sounds like a challenge.

Patrick’s breath catches and he doesn’t say, _I can think of a few_. He doesn’t say anything. He watches Pete next to him and waits.

Pete smiles suddenly and says, “Come dance with me.”

Patrick glances at the busy dancefloor. “Pete.”

“Come on.” Pete stands and tugs at Patrick. “Come dance with me.”

“This is ridiculous,” Patrick complains, but he goes.

Pete’s a good dancer when he feels like it, playful and fun, and he dances circles around Patrick, and sings along with the music. Well, screams along with it.

“I can’t believe they wanted you to sing,” Patrick shouts into his ear. He has to pull Pete close to do it, tugging him in by the lapels of his suit to keep him near enough for the comment.

Pete laughs and whirls away from him and then jumps his way back in time to the beat. Patrick is well-acquainted with Pete-jumping. Pete lands against him, breathless, making Patrick stagger back a couple of paces as he catches his weight.

“I’m not twenty-one anymore,” Patrick points out through his laughter, “you’re going to throw my back out.”

“Patrick,” Pete laughs at him, and then he bites Patrick’s ear.

It’s silly, a joke, not anything unusual for them, and Patrick can’t explain why it makes his heart stop, why suddenly he’s not laughing anymore, and it doesn’t seem at all like a joke. There’s music still being played, a throbbing beat, and people all around them, and Pete is still against him, not moving. Pete, his whirligig of energy, is suddenly frozen in place, and quiet. Patrick can feel the rush of his panting exhalations against his neck. They’re off-balance, literally, Patrick catching some of Pete’s weight, Pete leaning in, and Patrick doesn’t move to right them, Patrick holds them both in place.

“Patrick,” Pete says into his ear, and he’s _definitely_ not laughing at him. He closes his teeth around Patrick’s earlobe and tugs on it.

Patrick closes his eyes and stays incredibly still, like trying not to startle a wild animal.

Pete straightens away from him, and Patrick opens his eyes, and Pete just _looks_ at him, his pupils blown wide in his golden eyes.

Patrick licks his lips and manages to say, “My guitar is—”

“Get it,” Pete commands thickly.

“Yeah,” says Patrick, and darts off the dancefloor and nearly crashes over their chairs to reach his guitar case, grabbing it in a fluid motion and turning for the exit.

The mother of the groom says to him, “Oh, are you—”

“Bye,” Patrick says, and jogs out of the barn.

He’s momentarily disoriented by how dark it is outside, and he’s trying to remember where Pete parked the car, and then Pete grabs his hand and tugs, and he follows, because he assumes Pete remembers where he parked the car, except that Pete just takes him around the corner of the building next to the barn and shoves him back against the wall and kisses him.

In a relationship that has been dominated by Pete’s floods of words, Patrick thinks vaguely, he’s struck by the fact that they don’t exchange a single one. Pete kisses him and he kisses back and they don’t talk. He drops his guitar and scrabbles his hands against Pete’s shirt, tugging it out of his pants and then pressing his fingertips against the outline of the bartskull he can’t see but knows is there, and he’s thought so much about the placement of that stupid tattoo he’s pretty sure he’s found it exactly without even having to look.

Pete isn’t fooling around with shirts, Pete has jumped straight to pants and Patrick is not complaining, Patrick is not complaining _so much_ when Pete drops to his knees. He looks down at him and Pete looks back up, and then Pete glances off to the side, like he’s checking to see if anyone’s coming, and Patrick almost laughs because oh, well, whoever’s coming is just going to get a show, because Patrick is definitely not putting off his own coming here.

Pete must be satisfied because he turns back to Patrick and gets down to work and Pete…is…not…fucking…around. Patrick gasps, wide-eyed, because he kind of wanted this to last a little longer, and he tugs at Pete’s hair, and Pete slants a look upward that’s knowing and smug, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and Patrick can barely register all the nerve input from this full frontal attack, he flails immediately into surrender and comes without warning. Pete sucks him through it until Patrick is shuddering and oversensitive, and then Pete pulls back and lets go of the iron grip he’d been maintaining on Patrick’s hips.

Patrick flops inelegantly to the ground, shaky and spent, and Pete, breaths heaving, swipes at his mouth and sits back, watching Patrick warily, like he doesn’t know what Patrick’s reaction is going to be.

 _Idiot_ , Patrick thinks but doesn’t have enough energy to say. He kind of lunges forward to knock Pete onto his back. Pete grunts a little with the impact, but this position is a good one, because it means Patrick can suck him off without having to keep either of them upright, and he really legitimately does not know what Pete had been expecting out of him but judging from the look of utter shock on Pete’s face when he goes down on him, it wasn’t reciprocity. _Idiot_ , Patrick thinks again, and keeps his eyes on his as he blows him, just to drive the point home to Pete. Pete watches in astonishment and does not look away until he arches his head back against the ground and comes.

Patrick pulls off and spits a little into the grass. He’s a mess. They’re both a mess. He can’t bring himself to care. Pete is sprawled out, boneless, panting, and Patrick drags himself up to collapse against him. He feels like they’ve been mortally wounded, like zombies could attack and they’d just have to be the first casualties because oh, well, they’re never moving again. The wedding is still going on. He can hear the music drifting out to them. He…thinks it’s a fucking Fall Out Boy song, Jesus Christ.

Pete gasps out, “Is that—Is that _Dance, Dance_?”

Patrick starts laughing and can’t stop, and then neither can Pete, and they laugh until they’re wheezing for breath against each other.

Patrick says finally, “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Pete agrees fondly, his hand sweeping up and down Patrick’s spine.

“Why’d you tell me to get my guitar if you were just going to blow me against a wall outside your cousin’s wedding?”

“That wasn’t my plan,” says Pete. “I couldn’t remember where we parked. Do you remember where we parked?”

“Christ,” says Patrick, and starts laughing all over again.

“It’s not funny,” Pete says, although he’s laughing, too. “We need to find the car eventually. We can’t just stay out here forever with our dicks hanging out.”

“We’d put them _back in our pants_ ,” Patrick says, laughing so hard he can’t _breathe_. “ _Idiot_. We’re just going to have to walk around hitting the unlock button and hope the car responds.”

“I’m not letting you put your dick back in your pants,” Pete says, “I just got it _out_ of there, like, what if your dick is some kind of flower that only blossoms every twenty years or something?”

“It’s not, I promise,” Patrick says. “Stop talking. It’s stayed in there all this time because you talk too much, it’s scared of you.”

“I can stop talking,” Pete says, stretching over Patrick so he can kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, Pete Wentz is _such_ a good kisser, he’s a much better kisser than he is a bassist, thinks Patrick, and then resolves never to say that and just to think it really hard.

“Pete,” says Patrick eventually, reluctantly, “can we please put our pants back on so we can find the car and not fuck on the ground outside your cousin’s wedding where someone is definitely eventually going to come upon us? I mean, we waited all these years, we can totally wait twenty more minutes while we find the car, right?”

“No,” Pete says. “I mean, we obviously could not wait the twenty minutes for us to find the car, you literally _ran_ out of that barn just now, don’t even pretend you didn’t, you couldn’t take the extra thirty seconds to walk, so no, we couldn’t wait an extra twenty minutes, because you sang fucking _At Last_ , like, what the fuck did you think was going to happen when you did that, we’re really lucky this didn’t happen right on the dancefloor.”

“I don’t know what you expected me to sing,” says Patrick, bewildered. “When you asked me to do this, did you think I was going to sing _Sugar_? It’s a _wedding_.”

“I didn’t think it through,” says Pete.

“Shocking,” Patrick replies affectionately, and cards a hand through Pete’s hair.

Pete props himself up over him and looks down at him reflectively. “This is okay?” he asks, and it seems late to be asking that.

But, then again, it seems late to be _doing_ this.

“At last,” Patrick starts, and then can’t _believe_ he has said something so ridiculous out loud to _Pete Wentz_ , who is never going to let him forget it. He swallows the rest of the line.

But Pete just smiles at him and says, “We’ve always been totally like a song. All along. The whole time. Every song.”

And Patrick can’t disagree.  


End file.
